


Superhero

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Shipping words [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Life's a struggle, but he doesn't walk it alone.





	Superhero

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> For an anon on tumblr!

**I’ve been reading books of old**

**The legends and the myths**

He studies with Ignis for his exams and the Council meetings and to memorise the names of every notable and important person attending his Dad’s galas, every dignitary and the daughters they all but throw at him as potential brides, the tedious running of a country and how his own city is falling apart at the seams and how he might be able to save it if he fights and argues and _works_ for it.

He trains with Gladio not to become a master of blades but a Jack of all their trades, to learn the limits of his own body and the mobility issues stemming from that one daemon attack when he was a kid, to learn it and push beyond it and build himself up from the ground piece by piece by sweating, bloody, screaming piece.

He spars with Prompto to build a mutual familiarity with pulling weapons and ammunition and first aid kits from the space in between, how to cooperate and combine melee and ranged combat.  He _relaxes_ with Prompto, too, decompresses from… pretty much everything when they sneak out from under the noses of his security detail and leg it to the nearest arcade or cinema or fast food place for a few precious hours of being nothing but _Noctis_ first and a prince second.

He spends every Thursday evening with his Dad and his ancestors.  He listens to their warnings, advice, the tales of adventure and turmoil, a country at war, and the monsters defying the laws of nature and reality as they claw their way from the bowels of the earth.  He hears the ghastly call of the Crystal in the vault, tries his damnedest to ignore its relentless screeching as he dines with his Dad and scratches lines into the woodwork when he can’t.

He learns from the Glaives and their collective pool of experience handling the magic running rampant in his blood.  He watches their struggles and their triumphs and every loss of breakfast and lunch to the turmoil of a force on the other side trying to hook them in and _keep_ them.  He fights fire with fire and ice with ice and he learns the merits of conjuring a decent shield.  They teach him patience, perseverance, and how to fight dirty when an honour code lies in tatters at an enemy nation’s feet.  He finds the meaning of _found family_ in their unity in a hostile city.

**And clearly I don’t see myself upon that list**

The Crownsguard, the Glaive, his _friends_ , his _Dad_.  So many people willing to die at the drop of a hat if only to spare him.  They’d barricade the gates of Valhalla with their own bodies just to give him an extra minute in this world.  He knows this and he _hates_ it.  They’re important, their families are important, their _lives_ are important, he can’t possibly hold himself above them.  It’s not right, it’s not fair. _I don’t want this._

**I’m not looking for somebody**

**With some superhuman gifts**

**Some superhero**

Horrible breath and sleepy cuddles in the morning, fitting himself to a larger body and mouthing along his skin.  Burrowing under the covers and hiding his face in the pillows, _“one more minute”_ and laughter in the sunlight.  Fingers on his back, gentle and wandering over the knobs of his spine and the layers of scarring and a kiss on his temple, his cheek, his mouth and he almost, _almost_ takes the bait.  But he flops back into warm sheets with a whine and Gladio leaves him be until he’s done with a shower, lures him away from the sticky fingers of slumber with the promise of breakfast and coffee and being wrapped up in a blanket at the kitchen table because the apartment’s still cold and he hates it.  Is it cheesy to find comfort in these routines?  In hunting down a pair of slippers to jam his feet into and stubbing his toe on a chair?  In combing Gladio’s hair for him and pulling it back in a loose braid and dusting kisses over the broad span of his shoulders and the tattoos and hidden freckles on them?  In the span of his hands around Gladio’s throat and feeling the trust there in the pulse against his finger and the breath that doesn’t falter?

**Just something I can turn to**

**Somebody I can kiss**

He doesn’t want a Shield, he doesn’t want protection.  He just wants a boyfriend, wants **something just like this.**

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics throughout are from the song "something just like this" by The Chainsmokers & Coldplay. If you haven't heard it, I'd definitely recommend it :)


End file.
